by Alan Smale
From what Hadrianus had mentioned privately and perhaps jocularly to Marcellinus, the troops of Legio III Parthica over on the next hill were even better.
Marcellinus was strolling the streets largely unregarded. His escort, a Praetorian called Cassius, was shadowing him closely but had been directed not to engage him in conversation, which suited Marcellinus admirably. The fresh clothing that Agrippa’s quartermaster—another Visigoth, by coincidence, just like Leogild of the 33rd—had provided Marcellinus with was similar to that worn by the men around him. Thus dressed as a common soldier, clean and tidy, Marcellinus was no longer immediately recognizable and excited no comment.
Even more unusually, none of the Cherokee or Algon-Quian braves gave him a second glance either. After all this time in Nova Hesperia, Marcellinus was unaccustomed to fading into the background so completely. Despite the oppressive weight on his mind, part of him was enjoying it.
One galling aspect of the experience was that he had been permitted such freedom to wander the fortress only on his sworn oath that he would not attempt to elude Cassius and depart from it and that he must shortly report back for dinner with Hadrianus, Agrippa, and Sabinus in the Praetorium. Polite dinner conversation was not Marcellinus’s strength at the best of times, and he would have much preferred to dine under the sky by a legionary campfire or a Cahokian hearth than to lie on a couch being waited on by slaves. Indeed, he felt lucky to have survived his dinners with previous Imperators at all, speaking both gastronomically and socially.
But it could not be helped. In the circumstances, difficult dinner conversation was the least of his worries. And he had enjoyed the look on Agrippa’s face when the Imperator had granted him this largely symbolic freedom to wander.
By this point Marcellinus had admired the strength of the gates and the well-crafted wooden walls, chatted to the veterans of the first sentry watch, and been thrown out of the blacksmith’s forge for being a nuisance and was beginning to wend his way back toward the heart of the castra, with Cassius five paces behind. So it was that he was out in the open on the Via Principalis with the low, solid granary buildings to his left and the stable block to his right when the first Thunderbird roared over his head.
He heard it before he saw it. First came the odd thrum of the wind in its spars and sinews, a sound so chillingly familiar from his nightmares that it stopped Marcellinus in his tracks even before it cut through the quiet bustle of men in the streets. Next, the mules and horses caught wind of the intruder and started to whinny and stamp in their stalls. Then Marcellinus heard two orders called in calm Cahokian from directly above him at almost the same time but in two different voices, male and female: “Swing left!” and “Fire!”
And now, again almost overlapping, came the horns of Roman sentries belatedly sounding the alarm and the hiss of arrows being loosed.
Marcellinus dropped to one knee and raised his arm over his head, instinctively holding up a shield that he was not carrying, and looked up into the maw of a dragon.
The Thunderbird was dazzling, its huge wing outlined in fire. Bright lanterns swung at its prow, along its leading edge, and at its wingtips. The shadowy shapes of twelve warriors of the Wakinyan clan hung beneath it, some focused on steering the behemoth while others nocked arrows and selected their targets with care.
Around Marcellinus the soldiers of the 27th shouted and scattered. On the edge of panic, Marcellinus braced himself for a deluge of burning pain; even after all these years he dreaded the Cahokian liquid fire. But the agony did not come. The dragon roared by, shot its second round of arrows, and banked left, disappearing from his sight behind the granary.
Marcellinus had never seen a Thunderbird launched by night. Hawks, yes, but Thunderbirds? It seemed unspeakably dangerous. But beyond that, he could not imagine how they had launched the craft at all. This was a countryside of low rolling hills; the two Roman fortresses were atop the highest hills around, and there were no mounds or other suitable launch sites nearby. The torsion equipment, counterweights, and launching rail could hardly be packed up and carried a hundred miles across the countryside. How on earth had the Cahokians done it?
Tahtay and Sintikala had indeed been keeping secrets from him.
The hairs inside his nose prickled. Marcellinus’s flesh might not be burning, but something was. Down the street ahead of him, above the legionary headquarters of the 27th Augustan, the imago of the Imperator was aflame. The giant banner smoked and rippled.
A second Wakinyan flew in from the south, a little higher. It was lit by lamps just as the first had been, and as it passed over the fortress walls, its pilots pulled in their rudder bars and rocked the Thunderbird into a dive so steep that some of its lamps flickered and went out.
The Thunderbird lurched upward as it dropped its load. In the lamplight from the streets and the Wakinyan itself and the firelight from the burning banner, Marcellinus saw the lazy arc of a cloud of liquid spread and spatter across the roofs of the troop quarters, the stable blocks, and then directly across the street where he stood.
“Merda…Cassius! Get down!”
As the liquid hit them, he cried out, spun, and dropped to the street, anticipating that intense burning, the stink of naphtha and his own bubbling flesh…Again it did not come.
Stunned almost into insensibility, Marcellinus looked down at the splash of liquid in the mud of the street. It glistened back at him in the firelight.
Cassius was by his side now, his hand on Marcellinus’s shoulder, speaking to him regardless of his orders. “Oil, sir. Just oil.”
Yet another Thunderbird was approaching, this time from the north, accompanied by a clatter of flaming arrows.
“Incendiaries!” Marcellinus shook off Cassius’s hand and strode down the street, bellowing. “Fire is coming! Fire! Get indoors, under cover, on the double!”
Some men looked at him as if he were insane, but a centurion of the 27th hurried down the Via Principalis repeating the order. All around them soldiers ran for the nearest door. In Marcellinus’s case that was the stable block, and he threw himself toward it, sliding on the slick oil. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the blue and red banner of the Imperator fluttering down. The Thunderbird’s fire had burned through the cord that had held it high on its pole, and the imago slowly crumpled, still aflame.
Two more Wakinyan were coming in from the southeast, the second one flying above and to the right of the first, and above both there was a pair of Catanwakuwa. As Marcellinus watched, those Thunderbirds tilted forward into a shallow dive. It was a maneuver Marcellinus recognized, one that would forever haunt his nightmares. “Holy Jove…Shit…”
A torrent of fire fell from the first Wakinyan. A sound like a thunderclap came from behind Marcellinus, and the terrifyingly familiar red-white flames climbed into the sky, dazzling against the night.
The leading Thunderbird had disgorged its load of Greek fire—Cahokian liquid flame—right onto the main barracks blocks of the 27th Augustan. Marcellinus heard the screaming of men in pain, the bark of orders. Roman trumpets sounded the retreat even though the soldiers were already in camp. Their message was clear. Back. Back. Defense, not attack.
A blaze was spreading across the tops of both barracks. The stink of smoke blew over the camp. In the stables beside Marcellinus the braver cavalrymen were grabbing their horses’ heads, talking to their mounts and trying to calm them. Other horses, terrified and enraged beyond control, pounded their wooden stalls with their rear hooves. The whole stable block shook.
The trailing Wakinyan had separated from the first and was drawing a direct line along the Via Principalis, the widest lane of the fortress, which was still thronged with Roman legionaries. It began to spray fire, not in a stream like the leading Wakinyan but in a fine rain. This was liquid flame meant to maim, to burn as many men as possible.
Far behind Marcellinus there was a splintering crash as a roof gave way.
The first flight of Thunderbirds had felled the imago
and spread the oil. Now the real assault had begun.
The horses kicked at their stalls with an unholy thumping. Men were panicking, already blocking all the doors, fighting one another to get under cover.
“Squat down!” Marcellinus bellowed at the men around him. “Defenses up! Cover your skin; make yourself a smaller target!” He strode down the Principalis and turned at the Via Praetoria. “Move against the walls of the buildings! Don’t look up!”
Even as Cassius grabbed his arm, the deadly thrum of the Wakinyan came again, and instinctively Marcellinus disobeyed his own command. He lifted his head, his hand raised in front of it, and saw the Thunderbird soar over just a couple of hundred feet above him, its pilots feathered and bird masked.
“Down! Down!” He threw himself onto the muddy ground at the base of the workshop wall and curled into a ball as the fiery spray came down on him, searing his bare legs and neck. He bellowed and rolled. The liquid flame burned through his tunic and lacerated his back as well. He jerked upright, then fell and rolled again in the mud. Beside him Cassius wailed and slammed into the wall beside him. All around them legionaries writhed in agony.
A legionary ran toward Marcellinus, a bucket of water in hand. “No!” Marcellinus kicked out and toppled sideways again, avoiding the water that would have spread the Greek fire even farther across his skin. The legionary tried to quench the flames on another of his comrades instead, and a harrowing shriek greeted his mistake.
Marcellinus lay on his back, panting. The pain was ebbing now, but the backs of his legs still felt as if they had been stung by a thousand bees. The stench of burned meat hung over the lane. Gouts of flame shot skyward from the burning buildings to Marcellinus’s left.
“Cassius?”
The guard was down, unconscious, his skin still burned and bubbling. Either the shock or the collision with the wall had knocked his wits from him. “Merda.”
Once again he heard men calling for water.
He struggled to his feet. One mercy of being peppered with liquid flame was that he had briefly forgotten the chronic ache in his thigh. He looked down at himself in the flickering firelight but was too besmirched with mud to be able to tell how bad his injuries were.
He could not run; that was for sure. Alone, he took off at a fast half-limping trot down the Via Principia toward the Southgate.
Legionary efficiency had taken over. Centurions from the barracks nearest the Southgate had rallied their men. From beyond the walls Marcellinus heard the thudding of hooves; some turmae at least had mobilized to protect the path to the Oyo. A bucket brigade had already begun.
And in another moment of uncanny instinct, Marcellinus stepped out and looked up into the sky.
A shadowy Hawk craft, unlit by any lamp, sailed over the fortress. As it passed overhead, its wing waggled in victory.
Maybe it was ridiculous, but Marcellinus couldn’t help thinking Sintikala knew exactly where he was. And with that feeling came a moment of loneliness and heartsickness that threatened to overwhelm him.
The attack was over. Cahokia had sent its message. The fortress burned.
The Roman fortresses were a combination of large wooden buildings. They did not have the wagons and pumps for firefighting that the vigiles had in Roma and other great cities of the Imperium. The Oyo was their only source of water, and they were not close enough to it to adequately deal with an emergency like this.
Marcellinus did not see anyone he could identify as a tribune. He hurried to the centurion at the gate who appeared to be leading the effort, perhaps the primus pilus—the lead centurion of the 27th. “Centurion, instruct your men: don’t throw water on the flames. It will just spread the liquid fire, spread the burning. The timbers already aflame are gone anyway. Instead, soak the buildings that have not yet caught fire, the dry wood. You understand? Pass the word.”
The centurion looked Marcellinus up and down, noted his tone of command, and did not question him. “Yes, sir.” He turned to pass the order.
Marcellinus headed east along the intervallum area between the buildings and the high wooden wall, trying not to be bowled over by the legionaries who ran efficiently back and forth. Some areas of the barracks were still ablaze, others subsiding. The outer walls looked relatively unscathed; the few burning areas from the beginning of the Thunderbirds’ strafing run were being isolated efficiently. Foot soldiers were putting up ladders, carpenters working to make sure the walls held.
Marcellinus repeated his admonition against water to the men at the wall. Then he turned north at the camp’s corner and found himself face-to-face with four Hesperians he did not recognize.
Instinctively he dropped his hand to his belt, but of course he was not wearing a gladius.
Their leader peered at his wounded leg, then up at his face. In Cahokian, the man said, “You are the Wanageeska?”
Marcellinus glanced behind him. “Who asks me?”
“You seek to escape Roma?”
Two looked like Cherokee from their dress and tattoos. The others were indistinct in the shadows. Marcellinus sighed and leaned against the wall. “No. I swore not to leave the fortress, damn it. I’m just trying to stop people from dying.”
“A message, then? For the Cahokians outside?”
Marcellinus’s mind blanked. Again came his immense loneliness. What could he possibly tell Tahtay, Sintikala, Kimimela in a short message that would mean anything to them? He shook his head. “None. Thank you.”
The Cherokee nodded, and in the next moment his whole bearing changed. “Chief Agrippa has summoned you. Come with us.”
—
“A hundred eighty deaths reported so far from fire, arrows, rocks from slings. Twenty-four men crushed when their roof fell in on them. Nineteen cavalrymen trampled by their own horses, nine trampled by their bunk mates.”
The First Centurion of the 27th was a wiry veteran with close-cropped hair, his tunic and parade armor so impeccable that they looked freshly minted, vine stick tucked under his arm. He was barely keeping his rage in check at the loss of so many men as he gave his report to his Praetor in the legionary headquarters building.
Agrippa nodded grimly. “Injuries?”
“Hundreds. Major burns. Broken skulls and arms and legs. Twisted ankles from slipping in the oil. Cavalrymen booted up the ass by their mounts. It’ll be dawn before we get a full accounting.”
“Fire damage?”
“A diagonal line of heavy burning across the eastern barrack blocks. Minor damage to the Southgate and Eastgate and to this legionary headquarters and the Praetorium, sir. Arrows through some of the cohorts’ standards. The imago burned. Slippery mess everywhere in the streets.”
“Your barbarians are fine shots.” Hadrianus strode into the room, tossing his cloak onto a table by the entrance. “The three Roman arrows they shot into the door of the legionary bathhouse were a nice touch.”
Agrippa turned to glare at Marcellinus, who was standing by the wall flanked by the four Cherokee. “I do not like to be threatened, sir.”
“Does anybody?” Marcellinus turned to the Imperator. “That was only a taste of what they’re capable of.”
“Where did you find him?” Agrippa demanded.
The Cherokee pointed. “Corner, south and east. Walking.”
“And when you offered to help him escape?”
“He refused. Said that he swore to stay.”
Agrippa almost growled with frustration. “Messages to his friends?”
“He gave no messages.”
On receiving Cassius’s shamefaced report that he had lost Marcellinus, Agrippa had sent the Cherokee to try to trap him into revealing his treachery. If the situation had not been so grim, Marcellinus might have smiled at the man’s discomfiture.
The First Centurion cleared his throat. “Permission to speak, sir?”
Agrippa waved a yes, still looking narrow-eyed at Marcellinus.
“The prisoner told us how to fight the fire, sir. How to hold it
in check, best prevent it spreading. And he was right.”
“I do not break my oaths, Caesar,” Marcellinus said.
“Yes, yes.” Hadrianus strode forward. “This redskin attack, Gaius Marcellinus. Your interpretation?”
Marcellinus still felt as if he were inhaling smoke. “A threefold attack, well planned and coordinated. The first target was your imago, to show their accuracy and damage Roman pride. Chosen to make their intent clear. Then the oil as an additional incendiary.”
He paused. The use of oil was a new trick that would work well against large buildings like these and conserve the liquid flame. Marcellinus detected the mind of Enopay behind the idea. “Their second target was the buildings, to demonstrate the destructive capabilities of their Thunderbirds. Their third objective was to injure soldiers, drive them indoors. Prevent them from fighting the fires. Damage morale. Show Roma what they are dealing with.”
“An effective assault indeed,” Agrippa said acidly. “Perhaps you helped them design it.”
Marcellinus shook his head. “I don’t even know how they launched the Thunderbirds. You should have been safe from them here.”
The Imperator frowned. “Lucius Agrippa, I think we have learned by now that Marcellinus does not lie even when any other sane man would do so.”
“That does not make him any less dangerous,” Agrippa said.
Marcellinus snorted. “You think I am dangerous? Look to Cahokia.”
“Orders, sir?” Agrippa’s First Centurion was growing restive.
“Double the sentries on the gates and corner towers,” Agrippa said. “Assign a century of archers from the auxiliaries to stand ready on the ramparts, each side, all night, three watches. The next time anything larger than a buzzard flies over my camp, I want it on the ground riddled with arrows. Have the tribunes spread the word to their centurions to get the men bandaged, fed and watered, and bedded down. Don’t let them sit up fretting into their wine and water.”
